


When We're Alone

by MozoandRael (Mozorael)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Light Angst, Politics, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 07:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15529092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozorael/pseuds/MozoandRael
Summary: Two years have passed since the Promised Day, since Amestris was shaken and changed forever. A weakened military works to repair Ishval as the country slowly heals. But when General Roy Mustang vanishes after being accused of the vicious assassination of Fuhrer Grumman, Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye is determined to find her partner and clear his name, even if it means committing some light treason and risking everything.





	1. Chapter 1

East City, 1917  
Two Years after the Promised Day

General Mustang wished he could say he was glad to be back in the East. It was certainly calmer than Central, and greener. It had even been his idea at first, coming here after Grumman made it clear that becoming Fuhrer was out of the equation for now. It made sense, or at least it did then. Mustang’s men might have spun the events of the Promised Day invasion in his favor, but the seeds of distrust had been sown early, and there were many in central who would have died to keep him away from that office after the dust settled. He may have been on the right side of history that day (for once), but too many had seen him, his Lieutenant's hand on his shoulder, as he filled Central Command’s courtyard with flame. It didn’t matter that he did it to save them -- they only saw a man with an incredible power they didn’t understand. It had been enough.

And Grumman, he had played it exactly right, watching the carnage from a hundred miles away. No one saw his part: the collusion it had taken to dismantle one of the most powerful regimes in the nation’s history. No one saw him smuggle information across provincial borders under a wig and shawl. No one saw him conspire to detonate Fuhrer Bradley’s train. No one saw anything, because Grumman had been playing this game a long, long time, and he knew what he had to do to ride the chaos straight to the top.

Mustang had been too close, too involved. 

“Let them see you in this role for a while,” Grumman had said just moments ago. “Show them that you can be a leader behind a desk, not just in the battlefield. The people of Amestris don’t want a warrior to guide their country, they want someone who can shake hands, who can build bridges.”

Grumman had smiled at him through the shine of his small round spectacles.

“You aren’t ready, General.”

Mustang quickened his pace now, putting as much space between him and that office as he could. The Eastern Command hallway was stark white and eerily empty, so much so that Mustang could hear the echo of his footsteps against the tile. The Fuhrer must have taken a skeleton crew with him on his journey East to keep from arousing too much suspicion. Still, a few guards out here would have been a good idea. He’d only been in his seat for two years, and enemies had been popping out of the barely-healed earth, trying however they could to remove the old coot from power. Mustang was glad for the lack of an audience now, though.

Mustang frowned inwardly, banishing the bile that had risen in his throat with a hard swallow. He had been careless. If his Lieutenant had been there, maybe he wouldn’t have lost control the way he did. He’d been running hotter lately. Hotter and with a shorter fuse. The Fuhrer’s words burned him. You aren’t ready.

What did Grumman know about ready? Mustang had been waiting for this opportunity since the Ishvalan Civil War, since he realized that this was the only destiny that suited him. Every move since then had been only to position himself closer to the highest seat of power in the nation. Think of the good he could do with it! It was only two years since the Promised Day, and look at all the progress they had made with Ishval. The slums deserted, the country growing, the people healing. It was a long and exhaustive process, but he and his lieutenant had managed the beginning of the reconstruction practically on their own. Two years was long enough to prove to Amestris that he was capable, that he was worthy.

But Grumman refused to retire.

“Then allow me to return to Ishval, to continue working on the reconstruction.”

Mustang had stood at attention, eyes locked on the window behind Grumman’s desk, refusing the game of chess the Fuhrer had motioned him to. He stood near the door as the old man had played a game all by himself. Grumman spoke deliberately, like a man who knew he had all the time in the world.

“No,” he had said, removing a white pawn from the board as he replaced it with a black knight. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea, General.”

Mustang grimaced then, attempting to hide his surprised eyes under his black hair, which had grown much too long.

“Sir?”

“If you want to be Fuhrer one day, you need to learn how to stay in the public eye. Not every day as a leader is a day of adventure, General. You aren’t some wayward traveling state alchemist. Stay here. Stay here and do your own paperwork for once.”

Grumman smiled to himself as he knocked over another white pawn he had endangered himself a move before. It seemed to Mustang like he’d emphasized “one day” intentionally, like a father who was indulging his son’s wild dreams. One day. Not today. Not soon. Maybe not ever. 

Though it wasn’t yet noon, the air outside was heavy and dark. Mustang could feel the pressure building, the moisture swimming in the atmosphere. He shouldn’t have done what he did. He should have kept his cool. It was too hard anymore to keep his composure, to keep waiting in this graveyard, in this dead end. Grumman had even called Eastern Command that, once: a dead end. 

As soon as he was out of sight of the command center, Mustang twisted his way through a maze of alleyways between the low brick buildings that populated most of East City, careful to look like he wasn’t in a hurry. He leaned hard against a dusty alley wall when he felt far enough away, and he allowed the weight of his body to drag him to the damp ground. His uniform, usually crisp and bright, was going to be smeared red in brick dust and damp earth. He didn’t care. Mustang had maybe just sealed his fate forever. Forget waiting it out in East City, forget Grumman’s retirement. He had, in all likelihood, just burned his name from the Fuhrer shortlist for good. 

It started to rain. Heavy drops stained the knees of his trousers and pooled at his feet.

Mustang smiled, despite himself, despite everything. He was useless in the rain. 

Lieutenant Hawkeye was there now, where he wanted to be, in Ishval. He had insisted that she stay when he returned to East City to assume a more public role. She protested, of course, but not for long. It wasn’t hard to convince her to stay put. There was much work to be done still, and there was nothing for her to do in the inside of an office. For Mustang’s part, he didn’t think he’d be away this long. He could hear her now, if she saw him like this.

“Pick yourself up, General,” she would say. “You’re ruining your uniform.”

So he did. Mustang frowned when he saw where he had been sitting. A moment of weakness, now passed, seemed embarrassing now. Moping in the dirt like a child. He was glad none of his men were around to see it. 

He couldn’t return to his post now, he decided. He would wait until the Fuhrer’s train had left. It was a short visit for Grumman, just a quick scolding and then a happy trot back to Central. Just long enough to keep his dog in check. Mustang knew he should have been kinder, more grateful, but he wasn’t feeling particularly generous today. No, he would take the rest of the afternoon off and return to his post in the morning. 

Even in wartime, the East always seemed untouched by the chaos of the country. Pastoral, simple, it was a perfect landscape for a new family or a dying military career. There wouldn’t be any emergencies today, he thought. They could do without their general for now.

General Mustang took the long way home. Well, not home. House. Dwelling. Technically it was a small apartment above a shop, once occupied by a baker and her husband. Now it was just the husband, and he lived in a room behind the bakery. He rented the apartment, said it was too sad to live there alone. It wasn’t a glamorous home, but Mustang was almost never there, and he didn’t need much room. Plus, it smelled like bread in the mornings.

He walked down the quiet streets in what was now just a drizzle -- not enough even for an umbrella. Some people nodded at him when they saw his rank on his shoulder, but most avoided eye contact. He should smile more, some of his subordinates had recently advised. They misunderstood. He could smile when he wanted to, he could be charming. It’s just that he didn’t want to. His resentment had been growing here, and it was bad for his image. 

The rain stopped just as he passed the bakery and climbed the stairs to his apartment. The baker watched him pass but turned away when he caught Mustang’s eye. He frowned and returned to his work.

Mustang sighed as he rifled in his pockets for his keys. If he couldn’t even get his neighbor to like him, he was hopeless. It used to be easier, manipulating people. He used to wear an easy smile and could talk his way out of anything. It was harder now, and he didn’t know why. He was heavier lately, like the atmosphere was always damp, always charged. 

His apartment was dark and still, just as he’d left it. A flash of movement caused him to wheel around, gloved hands at the ready, but it was just his own reflection in the hall mirror. He’d lived here for months and it still happened. Mustang frowned. Once the hero of Ishval, now jumpy at his own reflection. 

His coat was stained, he noticed in the mirror. Maybe that’s why the baker had given him a look. 

Then again, maybe it was the mustache. Lieutenant Hawkeye had tried to talk him out of it when it first made an appearance, but Mustang had been resolute in its permanence. He’d come close to shaving it when she convinced his subordinates to occasionally call him “General Mustache.” An accident, they said. A slip of the tongue. He’d never gotten Lieutenant Hawkeye to confess, but he knew it was her. That woman never gave an inch, but he still knew. They’d been together too long to be able to keep secrets.

Mustang hadn’t even taken off his coat, hadn’t even turned on the lights, before he crossed to the phone. He pushed aside a stack of mail that had been piling up and consuming everything beneath it: requests from Central, letters from Ishval, an old friend’s wedding invitation. He should call her, tell her what happened today. His finger hovered over the dial, bile rising in his throat again. He knew what she would say, but he had to call her. He had to tell her what he’d done.

Before he could dial even a single number, a knock at the door. Resolute, sure. It wasn’t his landlord. This was a military knock, and it wasn’t a request.

Mustang hesitated only a moment before he swung the door open wide. A pair of soldiers he didn’t recognize, probably from Central. Probably Grumman’s men.

“General Roy Mustang,” one barked from behind a sunken scowl, “You are under arrest for the assassination of Fuhrer Grumman.”


	2. Chapter 2

Ishval, Northern Reconstruction Zone

Lieutenant Hawkeye hadn’t worn her uniform in months; it simply wasn’t practical. When she first arrived almost two years ago, her uniform felt invasive. She’d worn it last in this country when she was helping tear it down -- it didn’t feel right to don it like a soldier when she was trying to build it up again. But as an Amestrian liaison, the uniform was a package deal with her position. The Ishvalans may not have trusted her with it on, but no visiting officer took her seriously without it. 

It was a welcome relief when her position changed. 

When General Mustang returned to East City, he left her in charge of a handful of soldiers near the northern border of Ishval. They were tasked with keeping the peace and handling relations with border Amestrians as the Ishvalans rebuilt, but it wasn’t much of a job at all. The Amestrians to the north were mostly farmers and there hadn’t been a skirmish in months. Mostly, the Hawk’s Eye had been helping with local matters like the inventory of supplies and the mending and maintenance of surviving structures. She hadn’t touched her weapon, or even worn a holster, in what felt like eons.

Here, her uniform and her weapon were unimportant. In fact, some of her subordinates (the ones who had been stationed here since before the Promised Day) insisted that she embrace a more local style when she wasn’t planning on interacting with the neighbors to the north. 

That was how, on this particular day, Lieutenant Hawkeye found herself adjusting a striped sash over a loose linen tunic as she kneeled over a well that had unexpectedly gone dry.

Hawkeye frowned down into what looked to her like a hole to nowhere.

“When was the last time someone was able to draw water here?” she asked.

“Maybe a week? I don’t know.”

Hawkeye frowned again, this time at the young woman in an identical tunic across from her, who looked for all the world like she wasn’t really paying attention at all.

“Luce,” Hawkeye barked, “Stay with me. Who told you that?” Lieutenant Hawkeye was still struggling to adjust to the somewhat lackluster discipline of the newer recruits. They (the army and the Ishvalans) could certainly use the help, but she couldn’t banish the thought that when she was this girl’s age, Hawkeye could stand at attention for hours and still shoot the whiskers off a cat at 400 yards.

“One of the women, one of the older women from the town,” Luce gestured to the village, her eyes snapping back into focus when she realized that she might be in trouble. “I can go back and ask again if you’d like, Lieutenant?” 

Hawkeye shook her head and peered back down into the well. A dry bucket dangled by what seemed like a questionable rope, and was held up by what looked like an even more questionable slapdash structure. It was a newer well, and it was likely that it hadn’t been dug properly in the first place.

“Have a few of our men come back later today to inspect it. We’ll probably just need to deepen the well by a few meters. Have them collect the necessary tools and report back here,” she squinted into the sun as she spoke, calculating. “But not now. We’ll wait until it’s cooler. Maybe this evening.” It wasn’t until she met the girl’s eyes again that Hawkeye realized how clipped and cold her orders had seemed. She tried to smile. “Thank you, Luce.”

Luce was Ishvalan. Well, she was mostly Ishvalan. Of her four grandparents, only one was Amestrian, but it was enough to alter her genes. She had the dark skin and light hair, but her eyes were yellow, not the red that Hawkeye had become accustomed to the last time she was here. 

The girl gave her a curt nod and trotted back toward camp. Not a girl, a soldier. It was hard to see Luce and the other soldiers under her command as anything other than children. They were just babes in arms during the Civil War, not old enough to really understand what was happening here. They had grown up understanding, though. Many of these soldiers were Ishvalan. Without their uniforms, it was easy to lose them in the crowds of locals. 

Hawkeye peered up at the sun again. It was getting lower, even if the heat hadn’t let up at all. It was worth a trip to the market before she returned to camp. 

In order to burden the Ishvalans as little as possible, the Amestrian military had insisted that visiting soldiers were not to be quartered. They lived in camps on the edge of the villages and towns they were helping rebuild. It looked less like an occupation that way. Well, that was the idea. While most of the locals had been welcoming and even warm to Hawkeye since she came here, there were definitely those who wanted the Amestrian presence eradicated, tents or no. And they weren’t shy about it.

“You’ve done enough,” an elderly man had said to her at some point during her first few weeks at the camp. “Leave us alone. We don’t need your people here, sticking your hands into the lives you’ve ruined and the cities you’ve destroyed.”

A young woman had ushered him away, holding him close to her as Hawkeye stood stunned into silence. “No,” she had said to him. “She is just here to help. She probably wasn’t even here during the war. You shouldn’t--” Hawkeye couldn’t hear the rest.

But she had been here. She had been part of it. They could sense her guilt, she knew it.

Even now, in her Ishvalan clothes, the woman who gave her change at a fruit cart held her gaze for just a moment too long. You don’t belong here, Hawkeye heard. Go home.

Ever since her transfer to the northern reconstruction zone, something had felt off. Something was wrong. She was exposed, almost naked here. Maybe it was time to take some leave, go and visit Rebecca in Central. She owned a bar now, apparently. Hawkeye pictured herself having a beer with her best friend, away from the sun and the fruit stands and the wells and the knowing glances. It was a nice thought, but it wasn’t right. She couldn’t abandon her post. Maybe Colonel Mustang could use her help in East City. General. General Mustang. 

No, he had been very clear. He needed her here.

Hawkeye fantasized about other places and other people all the way back to camp. A mirage of peaked tents appeared on the darkening horizon, blending terribly with the dirt beneath them and the hazy sky above. A few figures dotted the horizon as well, and Hawkeye couldn’t decide at first why they seemed so foreign, so unfamiliar. Then at once she realized: the uniforms. A pair of soldiers in blue Amestrian uniforms, their coats comically unsuited to the heat, stood at attention in front of her tent, and an Ishvalan girl -- no, it was Luce -- ran out to meet her.

“Riza! They’re from Central!” 

Without thinking, Lieutenant Hawkeye shot her subordinate a glare at the sound of her first name. She didn’t notice.

“They wanted to go into town to look for you, but I told them they have to wait here,” Luce said as the two of them approached the soldiers. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Thank you, Luce. I’m fine from here.” she tried to smile again as she nodded, and the girl understood that she had been dismissed and trotted away. 

“Lieutenant,” one of the soldiers spoke to her with decorum, but it seemed intentionally soft. “I’m afraid I have some distressing news from East City. May we address you in private?”

Hawkeye’s stomach jumped into her throat. Mustang. 

The lieutenant’s tent was sparse but orderly, with only a few personal belongings and an oil lamp cluttering a small end table at its far end. A shiba inu was sleeping noiselessly on the bedroll as the visiting soldiers crouched on low stools.

“Lieutenant, I regret to inform you that on a routine visit to East City, your grandfather was assassinated in what we believe to be a shameless grab for power.”

Mustang is okay. Hawkeye’s shoulders relaxed a little, and the swimming in her head subsided, but only for a moment. Her grandfather. 

“The Fuhrer?” she asked after shaking off the terror of the moment before.  
The soldier nodded. “It happened yesterday. It took us a while to locate you. I apologize for the delay. We will of course escort you to Central as soon as possible.”

Lieutenant Hawkeye furrowed her brow. 

“Back to Central?”

“Yes. I’m afraid that his murderer is still on the run, and we worry he may try to find you. It will be easier for us to keep you safe at Central Command.”

Hawkeye frowned. That was unlikely. She and Grumman didn’t run in the same circles, and had very few enemies in common. She had barely spoken to him since she was a little girl. Plus, that wasn’t how power worked in Amestris, for which she was grateful. She wasn’t a threat just because she was related to the last Fuhrer. The next in line would be a general, maybe Doulby in the West or even Armstrong in the North. Hawkeye was way down the line and wasn’t a threat. For a political assassination, it would be an odd move to hunt down a lieutenant in what was, until very recently, enemy territory. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her.

“Where is General Mustang? Did he send you?” With Grumman dead, he might be the next target. 

Both of their faces darkened. “No, ma’am,” said the first soldier. “No one has seen General Mustang since yesterday.”

Panic gripped her then, tighter than before. She was on her feet and searching for her things, and woke Hiyate, startling a bark before he opened his eyes. “We need to find him. I need to get to East City right now. He could be in danger.”

“I don’t think so, Lieutenant,” said the second soldier, his face drawn. Hawkeye realized then that this was the first time he’d spoken. She recognized him, but she didn’t know why. Was he one of Grumman’s men? One of Mustang’s? 

“I’m afraid--” the first soldier again, struggling to find the words, “I’m afraid that General Mustang is the primary suspect. Our intelligence has concluded that it is very likely that Mustang murdered the Fuhrer.”


	3. Chapter 3

Ishval, Northern Reconstruction Zone

The bar was empty, except for the two of them. Luce and Hawkeye sat at the counter, Luce nursing a tall glass of something Ishvalan that Hawkeye was unable to pronounce. Hawkeye stared down into her own glass, swirling the brown liquid and distorting her own reflection in the bottom.

“It wasn’t him,” Hawkeye said again. Luce sighed, pulling her long white hair into a knot on the top of her head. Hawkeye hadn’t worn her hair long in more than a year. She didn’t know how her subordinate handled the heat with a mess of hair all over the place. Hawkeye sometimes took a blade to her own neck to shorten it, usually without a mirror, much to the awe and horror of her men.

“Lieutenant,” Luce said softly, a hand finding its way to Hawkeye’s arm, “They found him burned. His whole office. Everything.”

Hawkeye shut her eyes tight and shook her head, refusing to answer.

“His men. The Fuhrer’s men. Even Mustang’s men -- they said they saw him leave. He was the last one to see your grandfather alive.”

Hawkeye flinched twice: first at “Mustang.” Even the sound of his name hurt her, burned her to the core. She could vomit. She flinched again at “Grandfather.” She never called him that, maybe ever. Grumman was her superior and then her Fuhrer, but he never felt like family. None of her family ever felt like family. 

She choked on it this time, but managed to get it out once more: “It wasn’t him.”

“But he.. Lieutenant, he ran.” Luce’s voice made it sound like the most obvious conclusion in the world, an open-and-shut case.

Lieutenant Hawkeye just shook her head again, never taking her eyes off the bottom of her glass. There was no way to make her understand, no way to explain in a way that wouldn’t make her sound insane. How could she put it into words -- the history, the trust, the nights during the war that seemed to stretch decades, when she was sure she was going to die, sure that this was her very last moment on earth, but trusting completely the man beside her that she couldn’t even see in the blackness who said “not tonight, Lieutenant. We get out of here together or not at all.” Feeling him, knowing he’s there beside her, determined to keep her alive. And to feel that same fire for him, that same consuming drive that kept her feet underneath her when her legs were strained to the sinew after days of marching. Going hours or days without speaking, but never once falling out of step or out of synch, because to fall behind or give up means to let him down, to leave him alone. He had trusted her, ordered her to end his life if he ever strayed from the path he believed in. And she would do it. She wouldn’t hesitate. How to explain that to a recruit who couldn’t be a day over eighteen, who had never known battle, whose uniform was still tucked in a crate behind her bedroll. How to explain a person who felt like an extension of her own body, her own mind.

Her stomach ached. It went deeper than her body, dropped straight down to the floor and spread to the top of her head. Her nerves shuddered as she thought of him again.

She couldn’t explain it, and it wasn’t worth trying.

“You should get back to camp, Luce. You have duties in the morning.”

Hawkeye felt the girl frowning on the stool next to her, her legs barely touching the floor. She was practically a fetus, Hawkeye thought. Not even born.

“You don’t think I understand. I do.”

“No you don’t,” Hawkeye returned, maybe a little too quickly. There was no need to be cruel.

“I had a brother; a half brother. He raised me, and I thought we told each other everything. I thought I knew him like I knew my own mind. I could tell when he was pretending to be angry when he was really scared, or when he was forcing a smile or when he was lying to himself. He promised me, he swore he would never do anything to hurt me, that I was everything to him. His only family. But I was wrong.”

It seemed like the girl was finished, but she was choking down a sob. It was another moment before she spoke again. Hawkeye ignored her drink.

“But he left. He left home and I never saw him again. He abandoned me and he abandoned our family and I can never forgive him.”

“Luce, I’m sorry, but --” 

The girl put up a hand to interrupt. Hawkeye tried not to think again about discipline and decorum.

“You think that General Mustang couldn’t do something like this, because you know him better. But you can’t always know every part of someone. You think he doesn’t have secrets? Everyone has secrets, things they don’t want you to see, because sometimes they don’t want to see them. They don’t even know they’re there. You’re not going to Central. Fine. But don’t kid yourself. General Mustang wouldn’t kill someone? Wouldn’t burn him alive? Tell that to Ishval. Tell that to the people here. They still remember him.”

She was practically yelling at the end of her speech, choking back sobs and sputtering all over the counter. She looked younger then than Hawkeye had ever seen her. Just a kid. She tried to soften her face. She thought of the Elric brothers, of how young they were when she and Mustang had first darkened their door, when they compelled Edward to join up. Those brothers made decisions then as children that Hawkeye once struggled to understand, but it was easier now. She was being too hard on Luce -- she was young, but maybe she did understand, even just a little.

“Okay, Luce,” Hawkeye said tenderly, her eyes still fixed on the bartop through the bottom of her glass. “I’ll go. I’ll meet you back at camp, but I need some time alone first.” She tried to smile. She’d been doing that a lot lately, trying to smile. It was harder than it used to be.

The girl seemed satisfied. Hawkeye expected her to finish her drink, but she emptied it at some point when she wasn’t paying attention.

“I’ll let those soldiers know to expect you in the morning, then. Good night, Lieutenant.”

Luce even snapped her heels together and saluted before leaving. Maybe she was learning some discipline and respect after all, Hawkeye thought. The bar man wandered over and left a slip under a shot glass where Hawkeye could see it. The bill. Luce had left her to pay the tab.

Damn it.


	4. Chapter 4

Train to Central

Hawkeye had a plan. It wasn’t well-developed, well-advised, or well-thought-out, and it meant abandoning her post and naming her as a potential accessory to the assassination of the Fuhrer, but it was coming together better than she expected as she watched the verdant countryside rush by her window. 

The soldiers escorting her hadn’t tried once to engage in conversation since they left the station in Ishval. Hawkeye had been largely lost in thought, propping her elbow on the window and resting her chin in her hand, her eyes locked on the landscape as it passed by. The soldiers hadn’t looked out the windows at all. They sat facing her, eyes darting around the deserted cabin in search of danger. They were a little jumpy for soldiers, Hawkeye decided. Young and jumpy. Why was everyone so damn young? At 27, she was hardly old, but she’d never felt more like a cranky senior citizen.

She let her gaze rest for a moment on them, taking in as much as she could without drawing their attention. They were similar in stature (lean) and height (lanky), but otherwise had nothing in common. The first, the one who had done most of the talking in her tent, was as blonde and beautiful as an Armstrong, his green eyes framed by an exceptionally round head. The second’s face was much longer, his dark hair cropped close to the scalp on the sides but longer and messier on top. His brow was perpetually furrowed, his eyes locked in a state of constant worry. After looking past that for a moment, she realized who he reminded her of.

“Are you related to Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes?” she asked.

The two of them were startled.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“No, ma’am. Sir. No, lieutenant.” A pause. “Who is that?”

Hawkeye gave a shrug and let her arm pull her attention back to her window. 

“An old friend. You look like him.”

It was good that she was wrong. Couldn’t have some brother or cousin chasing her all over the countryside once she gave them the slip. It wouldn’t do to have Maes’s ghost after them -- might spook the general.

It would be hard to stay out of the military’s sight for long, especially now that she was back in Amestris. There was no way to know where the general had fled to, but Lieutenant Hawkeye was determined to find him. She had no intention of taking this train to Central City. She would find a way to slip off when it stopped at Eastern Command, she would find General Mustang, and then… and then she would figure it out from there.

Hawkeye frowned now, thinking of Luce back in Ishval. The girl was right -- Hawkeye didn’t know everything about General Mustang, but she knew enough not to doubt him for even a moment. He was innocent, and she would prove it.

She shifted in her uniform. It was strange to don it again after all this time, her neck hidden by the collar, the tailored fabric folded and pressed against her chest. It seemed like too much now. The light linen of Ishvalan clothing had grown on her. But her mind was clearer now with it on, with her hostler nestling her gun close to her body. She would have to ditch the coat when she left her escort at the next station.

The train was slowing now, drawing nearer to East City. Hawkeye tried also to slow her racing heart, think of something, anything other than what she would have to do next. 

Hiyate. Hawkeye had left her dog with Luce. He hadn’t even woken up when she packed up a few of her belongings and stuffed them into a satchel -- something small, easy to conceal later. It would be impossible for her to bring the dog with her as she searched for Mustang. It was better to leave him in Ishval. But still, she felt bad. Black Hiyate had been there for her through a lot, and she couldn’t help but to feel like she was abandoning him now. Trading the love of one man to find another. Luce and the dog got along well enough. He would be fine. 

The train pulled into the East City station -- the first real stop since they’d left Ishval. Every stop before this once had been in tiny clusters of hovels barely large enough to register as towns, and their stations had been largely empty. Citizens buzzed in the terminal now, their shouts echoing through the steam and the hubbub of the afternoon. It was a traveling season, and soon their currently abandoned carriage would be filled with families trying to get further from the heat of the East. It had turned uncharacteristically muggy as they’d traveled, and the air was heavy with wet. It made Hawkeye sweat under her uniform, and she could tell even her escort was uncomfortable.

When the train stopped completely, Hawkeye stood and stretched. Both men stood with her.

“I don’t think you should leave the train, Lieutenant. We’ll be on our way again shortly,” said the blonde one.

“Who said anything about leaving? I just need to stretch my legs. It’s about to get crowded in here.”

They both frowned in unison, almost comically.

“I’m just going to use the restroom before we start moving again. Trains turn my stomach,” she placed a hand on her belly, close to her holster, and tried to smile. There is was again, the trying.

Neither man moved. 

“I need something to eat, too. Let me get something from the dining car for you? We’ve got a long ride ahead. My treat.”

Maes’s ghost lightened, but shook his head. “That’s not necessary, thank you. Just… Just be quick.”

The blonde one held her gaze for a moment longer, before he too shook his head. “Hurry back.”

She left them standing there as she slipped through a few crowded car doors, out onto the platform, and disappeared into the crowd. 

 

It was hard to decide where to start. Hawkeye knew he kept an apartment in the city, but it was unlikely he would try to go back there. Did he have any contacts? An underground network the way he did in Central? It had been so long since the two of them were stationed here together, she wasn’t sure what roots he had been laying down. She thought of Luce. Everyone has secrets.

Eastern Command was out. That was where Grumman had… Grumman. Hawkeye’s brows furrowed. She thought that she would ditch her uniform first, but maybe it was better to hang on to it for now. 

 

For all of Amestris’s showy military grandeur, Hawkeye had always found security at the Eastern Command Center a little lax. With a uniform, squared shoulders, and a determined thousand yard stare, she was usually allowed anywhere. It wasn’t hard to salute her way through guard posts all the way into the main building, using what few names she could remember from her last time here. With the shakeup in leadership and the constant shuffle of lower ranked soldiers, no one seemed surprised to see her or even like they recognized her at all. She was lucky she wasn’t trying to infiltrate a smaller more intense outpost near a threatened border somewhere like Briggs, she thought. It wasn’t likely she’d be able to pull that off; though since Grumman took power, it felt like the entire country was exhaling, loosening its iron grip on the provinces a little bit at a time.

It wasn’t until she’d rounded the last corner to Grumman’s office that she first encountered someone who knew who she was.

“Lieutenant Hawkeye?” 

A mousy girl in a crisp secretary’s uniform stood behind a desk with papers spilling out of her arms. It look Hawkeye a minute to recognize her.

“Sheska,” she said, as warmly and casually as possible, “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too!” said the girl with a bright smile. “But what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be stationed down in Ishval, right? Working on the reconstruction?”

At first, Hawkeye was startled. Then she remembered. Of course. The one person who knows her is the woman with the photographic memory. Perfect.

Before she could open her mouth to answer, Sheska interrupted: “Oh! Pardon me, I forgot. I’m so sorry. You must be here because of your grandfather.”

Hawkeye flinched, but recovered.

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” She turned her eyes downward. How much could she trust this girl with? Probably nothing. It’d be smart to stay vague. 

“Isn’t it dangerous for you to be here, though, with Mustang still on the run? That’s so terrible, after all he did. He was a little gruff, yeah, but he never seemed like the kind of man who would do something like this. He was so determined after Lieutenant Colonel Hughes was killed. Oh, excuse me, I mean Brigadier General Hughes. And then everything he did for Amestris during the coup. And he was your partner! That must be terrible, your partner and your grandfather. I guess you never really know somebody. I think that--”

“Sheska,” Lieutenant Hawkeye held her hand up to silence her.

“Yes?”

“You talk too much.”

“Yes ma’am. Is there something I can help you with while you’re here? Do you need me to get somebody?”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Hawkeye said, her eyes turned back down the hallway. She could see the great carved doors, singed an unnatural back at the edges. Sheska followed her gaze and grimaced.

“I--” Sheska seemed unsure of herself now as she gathered her papers. They kept slipping out of her skinny arms. “I don’t think you should go in there, Lieutenant. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“I have to.”

Hawkeye wished Sheska would just leave, but the girl didn’t seem to catch the hint. She followed Hawkeye to Grumman’s office and stood a respectful distance behind her as she pushed open the door. 

Imagining it was bad enough, but Hawkeye wasn’t prepared for what she saw in what used to be the Fuhrer’s Eastern office. This wasn’t just a temporary setup for Grumman for when he chose to visit Eastern Command, this was his office in the years before he had assumed power, in the years before the Promised Day, when he was just a general with no future, cast aside in a useless post far away from anything important happening in central.

Maybe that’s what Mustang had been feeling, Hawkeye wondered. Cast off, sidelined, away from power. But he was a general now, on the fast track to the top. Sure, Grumman hadn’t even begun to talk about retiring, but there was no need for.. No need for this.

The office was unrecognizable, black and consumed by ash and peeling wallpaper. The carpet was concealed completely by debris, and the charred husks of what used to be furniture stood in position before the great oak desk, reduced now to dark splinters. The marks on the walls were sporadic and massive. This wasn’t an accident -- a careless tipping of a lamp or cigar left smoldering on an armchair -- this was a rampage.

“It’s hateful, what happened here,” Sheska squeaked. She kept her feet on the other side of the threshold in the hallway, but Hawkeye was already several steps inside. The ash, once settled in pillows, was disturbed by her presence billowed out under each footfall. “Lieutenant, I think maybe we should leave. No one is supposed to come in here until they’ve investigated--”

But Hawkeye wasn’t listening. She was doing her own investigating, running fingers along the tops of surviving tabletops and rubbing them together. Something was wrong. Something was missing.

“Who’s coming, Sheska? Who’s coming to investigate? Someone from Central?”

“Yes, I think so. An alchemy expert.”

Hawkeye exhaled sharply. Who was left anymore? Scar had eliminated 80% of the state alchemists left after the Ishvalan war and the program hadn’t exactly been popular since then. The newer alchemists could hardly be called experts.

“Who?” Hawkeye thought of the tattoo on her back, obscured by swirls of scar. There was no one like her father left either. No one expect Mustang.

“A professor. Someone from the university.”

Hawkeye inspected a cabinet, largely untouched by the worst of it, though it was still caked in ash. There were marks where someone had handled a drawer, where the ash was disturbed and smeared.

“Sheska, has anyone been here since the Fuhrer died?”

The girl shook her head. Hawkeye pried open the drawer. It was empty. She turned and surveyed the room again, lingering for just a moment on a low table by the window.

“Sheska, have you seen a chess set? I mean, did the Fuhrer bring one with him on his trip? Can you remember?”

The girl closed her eyes for a moment. “Yeah, he did.”

“It isn’t here.”

 

The two women marched down the hallway, Sheska jogging a little to keep up. Hawkeye was leaving smeared ashy footprints behind them on the white tile, but they were lightening. There was no time to worry about that now. If her escort realized quickly that she wasn’t coming back, Eastern Command would likely be their first stop as they searched for her. She had spent too much time here already.

“Thank you for helping today, Sheska. I really appreciate it. I can take it from here.”

“Where are you staying in town? Do you need some contacts? An office? It probably isn’t safe--”

“I’m fine, thank you. I need to get going. Oh, and Sheska?” Hawkeye stopped in the middle of the hallway and turned to her to secure eye contact. “Sheska, I need you to forget that you saw me.”

“But I can’t--”

“I know. I know you can’t. But I need you to try. I wasn’t here. It’s for your own safety. And mine.”

She looked worried then. Sheska still had a bundle of papers to her chest. Hawkeye wondered what captain was tapping his foot waiting for them.

Finally, the girl nodded.

“Be safe, okay?”

Hawkeye held up an affirmative wave as she hurried off out of Eastern Command and into the city.


	5. Chapter 5

Dublith, 1905

It hadn’t been much of a funeral, but then, her father hasn’t been much of a man. It was no secret that Riza and Berthold hadn’t gotten along. He was a man consumed by his work, distant and (ironically) cold throughout most of her remembered childhood. She had few kind words for him, and the two had barely spoken since he tattooed the secrets of his research on her back.

She was the guardian of a breakthrough she didn’t want any part of.

But still, as Riza stood in the dark hallway, her father’s room left empty, his bed unmade, she felt alone, abandoned. What was she going to do now?

As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, the furthest place possible from the office her father spent days and sometimes weeks locked inside, she ran through her options. There weren’t many.

One, she could leave home and join the military. Berthold would hate that. The war in Ishval hadn’t let up at all, and it was possible that she could do some real good. She wasn’t an alchemist like her father, but she was a pretty good shot. Maybe the military could use someone like her.

Two, she could stay here, in Dublith, and rebuild her family’s reputation. Her father had debts all over the city, and had only taken on one student in the last decade. They were broke, and by the way the butcher’s wife looked at her the last time she picked up their order, Riza was pretty sure her credit was running dry. Maybe it was time to get a job and restore a shred of goodwill in the place she had lived her entire life.

Riza wasn’t big on change. Or risks. By the time she’d considered her first option, it felt as if it was already flying away from her. She couldn’t just leave; there was still so much to deal with here. Her father burned many bridges, and it was her responsibility to build them back up again. 

The night was clear, and for that Riza was grateful. It meant she didn’t have to feel around in the dark for a lamp when she crossed over to her bed. She was exhausted. Daylight was threatening to peak over the horizon already, but the moon still hung over the town with a bright intensity that touched the rooftops and snaked its way across her bedspread.

Maybe Riza could take the apprenticeship she’d been offered at the armory. Cleaning and storing weapons had never been quite as fun as firing them, but it was an opportunity that came with pay. Shit pay, but pay. 

Riza climbed into bed, draping an arm over her eyes to drown out the shine of the moon. It was hard to say no to an offer like that. For Riza, it was hard to say no to about anything. She must have inherited that from her mother, as it never seemed like much of a problem for Berthold.

Could Riza go outside to play with the other kids? No.  
Could Riza read some of the books in the library, the ones about alchemy? No.  
Could Riza go to Central to study? Or to the North? Or anywhere? No.  
Could Riza borrow some money to leave and start her own life? No.  
Could Riza move out from under her father’s shadow? Could she lift the burden of his work from her shoulders? Could she live even just one moment for herself?

Riza shifted in her bed cringed as her back yelled out in protest. It still burned.

When Berthold came to her and asked to tattoo his life’s work on her back, so she could forever be the guardian of his most coveted secrets, it wasn’t really a question.

Even if it was, she wouldn’t have been strong enough to say no.

But now her father was gone, buried miles away. He couldn’t say no anymore, but Riza felt too paralyzed to move. She had nobody left. Well, except Roy.

“Roy Mustang.”

There was noone in the house but her, but she was still alarmed when she muttered his name aloud. She resisted the urge to peek out from under her arm to check for intruders who might have overheard her. The house is empty, stupid. You’re alone.

She spent most of her life feeling that way: alone. Even when she knew Berthold was steps away, downstairs in his office, sifting through notes and books she could never understand. People didn’t visit the house much, except for Roy.

He was older than her by a few years, but he always looked younger. She’d never considered Roy much before Berthold’s death. She heard him when he knocked, arriving early most mornings for his lessons, but he never waited for anyone to answer the door. Two knocks were his signal that he was coming in, and then he would disappear into the office with her father. Berthold didn’t like to disturb his work to do trivial things like opening the front door. Roy learned that quickly. So he never waited, and she never bothered answering. Hours later, sometimes well into the middle of the night, he would slip quietly out. They never saw each other.

And that was fine with Riza. 

But she’d seen a different side of him today. He wasn’t a timid student anymore, a boy desperate to please a master that Riza learned long ago was unpleasable.

He was an idealist. He wanted to help people. He wanted to change Amestris for the better.

Her father had never concerned himself with anything like that. His alchemy was for its own purpose. Discovery was its own reward. He didn’t know what he was looking for until he found it, the finding being the only part that ever mattered to him. To his credit, he wasn’t interested in doing any harm with his research, but that want wasn’t strong enough to halt him completely when he teetered with the morally gray. He was searching always for the impossible middle: to learn for its own sake, to discover the dangerous but circumvent the consequences. To stand as a neutral island of pure scientific discovery.

But neutrality wasn’t an option anymore. Riza knew that now. What he learned couldn’t be unlearned. It would die with her, but she would carry it until then.

Unless she passed that burden to Roy.

She’d said she would, only a few hours ago. She told him that she had it, the key to harnessing flame alchemy. Her father made her swear to keep it, to hide it from the wrong hands and carry his burden on her still stinging, burning back. It could help people, her father had warned, but it was also a tool that could do unfathomable permanent damage to the world.

But Roy wasn’t the wrong hands. His speech at her father’s grave convinced her of that.

“Even so,” he’d said, standing tall in front of her father’s grave, his posture having improved immeasurably since he’d joined the military, “if I could become part of this country’s foundation and protect everyone with these hands, I think I’ll be happy.”

His optimism was enough. She’d agreed to show him the secrets of her father’s research.

Something creaked in the hallway. Riza remained still. She was on the edge of sleep, and she could feel herself being pulled down into a pleasant dream. If she let her nerves get the best of her now, there was no way she would get any rest before the sun came up.

Another creak. This one closer than before. She didn’t move her arm, but thought of the only gun Berthold let her keep in the house. There was a rifle under her bed. If she moved quickly, she could have it pointed at the intruder before he had a chance to cross the threshold to her.

“Riza?”

Riza sat bolt upright.

“Mr. Mustang.” The sun was high enough now that her room was swimming in early morning light. Roy stood a little timidly at her door frame, wearing the same crisp blue uniform that he’d worn the day before at Berthold’s funeral. Or maybe it was a different one. It would be impossible to tell -- all Amestrian soldiers wore the same thing every day.

Riza squinted into the light and swung her legs over the side of her mattress, realizing too late that she was still wearing shoes.

“Up all night?” Roy asked, her arms crossed behind his back. He was smiling, but it was soft, apologetic.

“I was out walking. I just got in. What are you doing here? You’re supposed to knock.”

“I did, I’m sorry.”

“You’re supposed to wait for an answer.”

“I didn’t think about it. I’m sorry.”

He crossed his arms back in front of his body and she saw that he’d brought a notebook with him.

“You’re here for the alchemy, the research,” she nodded, understanding.

“And to see if you need… anything,” Roy gestured nonspecifically in front of him, and suddenly the sparseness of the room embarrassed her. She tried not to spend a lot of him at home, and she’d never been one for collecting. The room was bare aside from a few books, a lamp, and a couple of low chairs. There were no photos, no momentos from a childhood in exile.

Rize looked briefly out her open window. The morning was new and damp, but already the city was stirring. 

“We should head downstairs then.”

Berthold Hawkeye liked to keep light out of his office, except for what he could control. Heavy curtains plunged the small study in a quiet darkness that stifled the bustle of the street outside his window. He said it helped him work, helped him forget time and food and anything else that might disrupt the rhythm of discovery. 

It was dark now as Roy pushed the door open, Riza right behind him. Even now that Berthold was gone, she wasn’t sure she could have gone in first. His smell was still in the air, still clinging to the curtains and haunting the stacks of books piled high on the floor beside his desk. 

She worked her way around the room, lighting the few lamps and double-checking the curtains. She could feel Roy’s eyes on her as he kept still by the door, maybe unsure of where to stand or what to do with his hands.

“I’ll try to be quick,” he murmured, notebook pulled tight to his chest. It rumpled the thick fabric of his military coat. “I don’t want to impose.”

Riza crossed to him, and he took an involuntary half step back. Riza needed to look him in the eyes when she said what she’d been thinking for hours now.

“You have to promise me, Mr. Mustang. Before I show you. Promise that you won’t make me regret it.”

He nodded, shallow but sure.

Berthold must have known what he was doing, using her back. Even in the privacy of her home, with a soft halo of daylight working its way through the cracks and edges of the curtains, she felt exposed before she undid even a single button. She turned her back to him and pulled down her sleeves, baring her skin. 

She heard Roy inhale sharply. The sight of it was startling, she was sure. She had seen it only briefly, when it was first finished. For a long while it had been too painful for her to even glimpse it in the mirror, her skin angry and inflamed from the long procedure that had left her bedridden. She felt hot tears threatening the edges of her eyes now as she remembered sleeping on her stomach, clutching her sheets as the night air cooled her exposed skin every evening, too afraid to move until it was time to get up in the morning. Since then, she hadn’t looked at it because she didn’t want to.

The tattoo stretched from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, and the gentle sloping patterns and small cramped lettering arranged itself into a recipe she didn’t understand. It was surely still pink at the edges -- the raw sensation had only recently begun to fade. Riza hoped that Roy could make sense of it anyway.

She stood in the center of the bare wooden floor, her jacket crumpled in a heap at her feet, as she hugged her arms tight to her chest. She looked down at her feet, not daring to move a muscle. She didn’t want to disrupt the studying that Roy promised would only take a minutes. For a long while, the silence passed only with the gentle scratching of a pen to paper -- Riza assumed that he was furiously taking down what he could to analyze later. It seemed impossible to her, to make any sense from what Berthold had burned into her.

But then it stopped.

Through the thick window, obscured still by the heavy curtain her father had possibly never drawn open, Riza could hear only the muffled buzz of the morning. Of her neighbors passing by, of the summer insects, of the birds navigating their wild garden. Roy’s pen was silent, his book closed. 

Riza didn’t know what to do. She was still, her arms folded together, her knuckles whitening and growing cold.

Suddenly, she felt the ends of Roy’s fingertips, so gentle and light that they almost weren’t touching at all. He was tracing the tattoo at her shoulder, following the sloping lines along her back. He was closer now, and he murmured words under his breath that she didn’t understand, but definitely recognized. They were the words her father had traced onto her skin, an ancient language that unlocked the secrets to a part of alchemy only two people in the world might ever know.

A chill followed his fingers as he caressed the scarred skin, and Riza had to stifle a shiver. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine what he was seeing, an image of the tattoo she only had a vague shape of in her mind. Instead she saw an image of him, his dark hair much too long for a military man, his uniform crisp, his smile gentle. The man she’d seen at the funeral wasn’t the boy her father had taken as a student, not any more. Roy would do great things with this alchemy, with this gift she was giving him.

Roy cleared his throat. His touch was absent, the sound of his voice much farther away than he had been just a moment ago. Riza still didn’t turn around. Instead, she studied the curtains, the books on the shelf, the wall that needed washing, the floor that needed sweeping. Her father’s legacy was in this room, but it was leaving now. His life’s work was in a notebook, soon to be on its way to Ishval, to make a real difference.

“Thank you,” Roy said after a moment, his voice catching in his throat. Riza didn’t answer.

Footsteps. A door opening and then closing. Silence. The neighbors, the insects, the birds.

She was alone in her father’s study, suddenly just a room without secrets: A museum to a life consumed by knowledge he never intended to share. Riza frowned, her arms still pulled tight to her chest, her jacket still crumpled in a heap by her feet. This couldn’t be all she was good for, just a vessel with a message passed between two men she barely knew. With one arm still crossed in front of her chest, she threw open the curtains, and daylight spilled in.

The day was bright and warm. It was time, she decided at last. It was time to start her own life.


End file.
